


How Will This Be

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale says gay rights, Brandy - Freeform, Christmas, Comedy, Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley says trans rights, Crowley thinks it’s like plants, Feels, Feral Server Made Me Do It, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Jesus-Related, Literally No Pregnancy At All, M/M, No One Is Actually Pregnant In This Fic, They dont know how babby is formed, They’re Just Really Stupid, This fic is surprisingly tame and actually very softe and sweete, am i preganananet?, am i pregnate?, blame Greece for this, discussions of childbirth (non-explicit), discussions of pregnancy (non-explicit), i dont know how this happened, immaculate conception, neither one of them knows how this works, no smut either, see for reference: Unicorns, this is the fault of Hellenic Parliament
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28420821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: Gabriel continues: “She has an entire plan, you see, and it isn’tquiteready to go, but you’re going to play a very important role! Or, well, your corporation is. See, She has a couple of things to line up - some prophets, some other births, a couple disciples, John the Baptist and all - but afterwards, She has decided She needs a virgin human to finish the job! A virgin body, that is.” Gabriel swallows, looking a bit awkward for the first time in Aziraphale’s entire existence. “Corporation, I mean. Yours!”Aziraphale is struck stupid a second time, but this time it’s not at all joy he is feeling.(holiday fic, 2020)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 116
Collections: FFS (Feral Fandom Saturdays)





	How Will This Be

**Author's Note:**

> WELL. SO.
> 
> Once upon a time, a VERY feral server had a VERY feral chat about immaculate conception and Good Omens. This is what resulted. I feel like I should kind of apologize but I'm not gonna.
> 
> This fic takes place within my general universe in which Aziraphale and Crowley realize very early on that they're on their own side, and everything in canon is adjusted based on this realization. I haven't yet solidified all of it, so this will end up part of a collection as I develop it, but just pretend they got together at least on the Ark if not before.
> 
> Basic warnings are that, since neither Aziraphale nor Crowley actually understand how human reproduction works, there's some non-explicit discussion about how humans MIGHT have babies. If that kind of thing ain't your jam, be careful proceeding. THERE IS ACTUALLY NO PREGNANCY IN THE FIC AT ALL.
> 
> (No) Thank you to the feral server for encouraging all of this absolute goddamn nonsense. I love u all.

“You see,” says the Archangel Gabriel, trailing his toes through the sand. “We’ve had you stationed here for a _reason,_ Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale picks up the skirts of his robe. Unlike _Gabriel,_ who doesn’t have to worry about seeming human, _he_ is wearing sandals — and isn’t walking on the surface of the sand like it’s water, to be perfectly frank. Unsure about abusing such a silly miracle in front of his superior, Aziraphale simply picks up his pace, already well aware he looks quite foolish scrambling over the sand like this. “I had assumed so,” he says, and it comes out rather peevishly — more than intended. “There’s usually a purpose to my orders, I know that well enough.”

Gabriel laughs - the kind of laugh Aziraphale can never decide between _condescending_ and _not getting the joke_ when he’s describing it to Crawly later - and slugs Aziraphale in the shoulder. Nope, definitely condescending this time. “Aziraphale, Heaven appreciates your faith!” Gabriel beams down on him. “But you’re ruining my delivery! I have a really good feeling about this one!”

“My apologies,” Aziraphale says stiffly, because Gabriel can be downright _rude_ sometimes. “Do go on.”

Gabriel either doesn’t notice the bite in his voice or doesn’t care. “Speaking of delivery,” he says, finally stopping just to lean into Aziraphale and say, excitedly, “How would _you_ like to deliver the actual Son of God?”

Aziraphale, caught off guard, can’t help a moment of shock. He knows there have been rumblings that God’s trying something new - since humanity doesn’t seem to be working out like anything Heaven had ever expected - but an actual _Son_ of God? She’s making an actual _offspring?_ “I would be _honored,”_ he breathes, because this is the first thing Heaven’s asked him to do in the last thousand years that truly fills him with joy. “Where would I be, um. Delivering him to?”

Gabriel gives him that laugh again but this time Aziraphale isn’t offended at _all._ He’s been around humans too much, probably; Gabriel must be as delighted as he is! “Oh, Aziraphale. No. Delivering the baby.”

“She’s making it - him - a _baby?”_ Aziraphale frowns. “What, like a human baby?”

“Exactly like a human baby!” Gabriel grins and fists his hands near Aziraphale’s face, shaking them in some gesture of victory. “He’ll be both human _and_ divine, see!”

“How on earth will that work?” 

Gabriel shrugs, still beaming. “Who knows!”

Aziraphale, wisely, doesn’t add anything. 

Gabriel continues: “She has an entire plan, you see, and it isn’t _quite_ ready to go, but you’re going to play a very important role! Or, well, your corporation is. See, She has a couple of things to line up - some prophets, some other births, a couple disciples, John the Baptist and all - but afterwards, She has decided She needs a virgin human to finish the job! A virgin body, that is.” Gabriel swallows, looking a bit awkward for the first time in Aziraphale’s entire existence. “Corporation, I mean. Yours!”

Aziraphale is struck stupid a second time, but this time it’s not at all joy he is feeling.

“There’s something special about it,” Gabriel tells him in a very loud whisper. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to go through all of the — well. Shenanigans. And all. She’ll just, you know. Pop it right in. Him. The Son.”

Aziraphale makes a strangled noise and says, confused, “Oh, Gabriel, that won’t do at all, I’m—”

“Not worthy?” Gabriel gives him that condescending smile again. “Sure, you might think so. I might think so! But you’re really the best fit for the job! Aren’t you _excited?_ I’m excited.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says, very faintly. It feels as if there’s steam boiling out of his ears. “Truly off my rocker.”

Gabriel gives him another friendly punch to the chest and it takes everything Azirpahale has in him to not simply crumble at the blow. “Now, I’m just here to give you a sneak preview. I’ll be back in a few days with the official announcement!”

“Gabriel, wait.” Aziraphale’s brain - admittedly still _very confused_ about the entire matter - has finally clunked its way back into motion, like a waterwheel having been cleaned out. “Wouldn’t it be - er - yes, wouldn’t it be better if a, uh, well.” Something. _Anything,_ Aziraphale. “What if a human woman did it?”

“Don’t be silly!” Gabriel exclaims, but when Aziraphale simply shuffles his feet and shrugs his shoulders, his grin turns into a frown. “Aziraphale. Are you actually … are you offering _constructive criticism…_ to _God?”_

Aziraphale swallows, but surges on ahead, boldly. “Did God actually _pick_ me?” He asks, very delicately, because if God truly sees _**all**_ then there’s no way She would have selected him for— 

“Oh, She just said, ‘Go find Me a virgin I can knock up’,” Gabriel says, grinning with teeth. “It was Michael and I who thought of you! Virgin corporation, no need to appear to any puny humans, you get a chance to shine in the eyes of the Lord — it’s a win-win!”

“Well then.” Aziraphale drew his shoulders up. “I am - truly - um - _honored_ and _humbled_ by your choice, and your offer, but as I’ve been living here among the humans, I feel like the gesture might have - incredible impact - if the Son of God came from a human?” He finds himself believing in the cover story more and more as he speaks. “If you were to give me a few days, I am _positive_ I could find an appropriate - em, vessel - a person _worthy_ of carrying Her Son.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrow, but Aziraphale’s happy to find he looks contemplative at least, rather than suspicious. “I’ll go discuss with my brethren,” Gabriel says, finally. “You have two days, and we’ll see what you come up with.”

Aziraphale waits until the bright streak of light that’s Gabriel vanishes into the bold blue of the sky, and then exhales a breath he technically doesn’t need, his entire corporation sagging in relief.

———

“And then, Crawly,” Azirpahale says, his tone getting more and more frantic, “I only have two days to find a - a suitable, willing - someone that isn’t - oh, _Hell.”_

“Calm down,” Crowley tells him, pouring more wine into his cup. He’d wanted Aziraphale to try out his new name today - preferably on the mattress they’re sharing here in Nazareth - but now that looks like it’s a lost opportunity. It’s alright; he isn’t quite sure about _Crowley_ yet, anyway; plus he doesn’t mind, because it’s Aziraphale. “C’mon, angel. Breathe.”

Aziraphale looks at him gratefully and drinks deeply from his cup. Crowley watches, and when he feels like Aziraphale’s ready to accept it, he wraps his arm around the angel’s shoulder. He doesn’t bother tugging Aziraphale in; instead he leaves his arm there, like a solid weight, a support to keep Aziraphale grounded. “Look, we’ll find something. I already have a couple ideas. Human virgin? Pious? We’ll figure it out.”

“I just,” Aziraphale says, his voice wretched, and here it is: that doubt, the guilt that eats away at him, the uneasiness that always builds up when this - thing - between him and Crowley starts to tickle at his conscience. It happens, occasionally, and it makes Crowley feel very strangely awful every single time it does, all of his hidden feelings about rejection tangling with how much he cares about Aziraphale. 

“I know,” says Crowley. He rubs his palm over Aziraphale’s shoulder, wondering how long this particular bout of doubt and self-flagellation will go on. He hates seeing Aziraphale torn like this, but it isn’t like he can be anything other than what he is— 

“I mean,” says Aziraphale, and it’s with a soggy little giggle and that prim note in his voice that Crowley just loves hearing. “I couldn’t exactly explain that this corporation hasn’t quite been a virgin for thousands of years, now, could I?”

Surprised - shocked - _delighted_ \- Crowley barks laughter into the air. No, _that’s_ his angel. That salty sweet bastard he’s been in - whatever - for since the very beginning. “I mean, you _could_ have pretended it had been humans, angel.”

Aziraphale shudders, and finally leans into Crowley, his head settling in against the demon’s shoulder. “Absolutely _not._ I would _never.”_

 _But letting a demon have you six ways to Sunday is fine,_ Crowley thinks, but doesn’t say. He’s smarter than that. They’ve learnt a lot, the two of them, over the last four thousand years or so. Instead he says, “Should we talk candidates?”

“Oh, not now.” Aziraphale sounds cross, but Crowley can at least tell it isn’t directed at him. “Gabriel’s ruined my day. Do you _believe_ they would have just - just popped down here and—” He wiggles his fingers at his own stomach, and Crowley’s arm tightens, because he wants to say _yes_ but doesn’t.

There’s a witty comment right on the tip of his tongue, but of course _now_ is when Aziraphale sits straight up to look at him, eyes wide and mouth horrified. “You don’t think they would…”

Crowley cannot help the way his eyes flick down to Aziraphale’s belly and then back up. “No. They wouldn’t.”

“But what if—?”

“No, angel, it can’t…”

Aziraphale’s voice becomes wobbly. “What if I am?”

“If you are,” Crowley barks, sharper than intended, “then it’s mine, you bloody idiot, you know what we get up to!”

That moment - both of their eyes widening, realizing they have absolutely no idea how these human corporations actually _work_ \- hangs in the air like a droplet of water, taking its sweet time to fall.

———

“N-no,” Crawly says, insistent, and Aziraphale can feel the way Crawly’s head bobs on his stomach, where it’s resting, as his darling demon attempts to make a point. They’re a good number of cups into the evening, and the haze of the unwatered wine is settling Aziraphale, finally calming some of his nerves. “‘S not a — a, uh, no. It’s like a. Ngm. A _growth_ thing.”

Aziraphale snorts and drinks more. “No, I’m fairly sure there’s a term for it,” he says. “For, you know. Procreation.”

“Stars,” says Crawly, dreamily, and Aziraphale looks down to see an endearingly odd look on his face. “Stars grow. In, like, a — well.” His mouth makes a couple attempts before Crawly gives up and says, instead, “like a star farm.”

“What, like plants?” Aziraphale asks. “On a farm?”

“Yes!” Crawly sits up and Aziraphale watches as he sloshes his wine all over their floor, then watches the equally clumsy miracle Crawly uses to undo it. He loves watching his demon perform magic; it should be anathema to him, but Aziraphale likes the way it all feels ...familiar. As if they weren’t so different, after all. “Gestation!”

“I don’t think gestation is for plants.” Aziraphale frowns. “Isn’t that for elephants? Mammals?”

“Humans’re mammals,” Crawly mutters and then continues. “Gestration. No, that’s prostration. Um. Germanic. No, that’s not for a while. Gewurtztraminer. Gemini. Germi,” he starts and then yells, “Germination!”

Aziraphale hushes him. It’s far past sunset, and these people go to sleep not long past dark, tending their fires and sharing meals and stories for only a short while before they go to their beds. Nazareth is not big and it is not wealthy; these people work hard, and their fully-human bodies need the rest. 

Crawly’s continuing, babbling somewhat. “I’ve done plants, angel. ‘S like — it’s a seed, right, and once it’s, y’know, ready to go, it gets planted. And then if the situation’s right, it grows. ‘S gotta be how humans do it, y’know?”

“Must do,” Aziraphale says, but he’s getting drowsy. He and Crawly don’t necessarily need sleep, and they don’t always make a regular habit of it, but they _do_ have to keep up appearances in this town, and besides — Aziraphale’s a bit tired from the surprise visit and all of the related stress. “Come, darling. We’ll think more clearly in the morning.”

“Planting a seed,” says Crawly as he stands, and the look he turns up at Aziraphale is wondrous, full of awe and tenderness. He lets Aziraphale tug him upwards, and Aziraphale can’t resist pressing a few gentle kisses to that open mouth. Crawly lets him do that too, dazed and appreciative, and Aziraphale’s concerns are swept away in that feeling of _rightness_ he feels when they’re together.

“Sleep,” says Aziraphale, and draws his demon after.

———

It’s probably only a few hours later when Aziraphale sits up, panicked, screeching: “A _seed?_ Is there a _seed_ growing in my _belly?”_

———

The next day finds them both dressed to present female and somewhat cloaked within Crowley’s magic, bickering with each other as they watch the healer’s home, hidden. 

“It can’t just be a seed,” Aziraphale insists. “Look at the way they - they look,” he ends, sounding kind of desperate. But it’s true; he and the angel have watched humans having tiny humans since Eve first grew one. “They sort of - bloat - over it, don’t they?”

Crowley hums. “‘S not bloat, angel,” he says, “what if that’s just covering it up? Keeping it safe?”

“Makes sense,” says Aziraphale. The angel keeps rubbing at his belly, and Crowley catches at his hand to stop it. “They put all those layers over it to what? Keep it warm?”

“Yeah, some seeds have to stay warm and humid,” Crowley says, idly. He’s watching one of the local women walk towards the healer’s hut, one hand on her rounded belly. “You, like, mulch them. It’s a layer on top, keeps in the heat and moisture.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says. His eyes turn towards the woman as well, and he tugs his hand back from Crowley to rest it on his own belly. “Mulch. Extra layers.”

“Maybe it’s in, like, a pouch?” Crowley suggests. The woman’s body looks a bit unbalanced, all of that weight sunk towards the bottom of her torso. It isn’t at all like when Aziraphale lets his divine hunger go and eats an entire roast pig — not the stomach at all. “They carry it close, yeah? For protection?”

Aziraphale says nothing, and when Crowley looks over he’s rubbing at his stomach again.

“Oh, for Heaven’s — for Hell’s sake, angel, there’s no baby inside your corporation!”

“Would we know?” Aziraphale asks, his eyes wide. “How do _they_ know?”

“Asgh,” Crowley stammers. “I don’t know. They just do!”

They fall silent, watching the healer’s home. There are a number of people that drift in and out throughout the day. Nazareth is simple, and straightforward, and people come to trade grain and eggs and goat for services. Crowley knows there are a number of young men and women who are training under Marit Anna, the old woman who serves as their healer and doctor. Not everyone who goes in there is pregnant, of course, but Crowley doesn’t exactly fancy spying on someone who is. That just seems ...rude.

Aziraphale still seems perturbed, and Crowley can’t have that. “Alright, angel — this isn’t going to help us. Let’s go look for some virgins.”

———

The question in Aziraphale’s mind is still puzzling him, an hour later, as he and Crawly in their feminine shapes now hover around the temple. 

“Say, Crawly… How do you think She would define virginity, anyway?”

Crawly frowns. “I mean … well, uh … ngk. Good point, angel.”

“The humans came up with the concept themselves,” Aziraphale continues. He isn’t quite sure where he’s going with this argument, but it seems important in this particular situation. “With the, em, you know. The male piece into the female piece.”

“‘Cept it isn’t always male, is it?” Crawly points out, grinning. “Or female. You know that.” 

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, peeved, because he’s always been a champion for those humans who find themselves two-souled, or transgendered, or genderqueer or nongendered at all; it’s something he’s quite proud of, and Crawly _knows_ that. “I’m generalizing, of course. In this specific context.”

Crawly hums, thinking. “Well, doesn’t matter in your case, does it? I mean, we’ve had it pretty much every way there is to have it, over the years.”

And they _have._ Aziraphale gets momentarily lost in the blissful recollection of how many times and ways he’s been able to express - affection - with his darling serpent. They’ve tried every possible configuration of human pieces and parts - and some that aren’t human at all - and oh, every single one of them has been delightful. “Oh, do you remember the time with the mango and the—”

“And the rope,” says Crawly, giving him that crooked smile that wants to be lascivious but is far too tender to hit the mark. “Satan, angel, that was a good one.”

They lose themselves in the memory, smiling stupidly at each other, until soft noise behind them catches their attention once again. 

It’s Maryam, Marit Anna’s daughter, — a sweet, pious, private girl who’s devoted to the church. Aziraphale loves her for her pure heart; Crawly loves her because she’s fond of snakes. 

Maryam is with Tanithe, the potter’s daughter, and Tanithe pulls her around the back of the temple, both of them giggling softly. 

“Curious,” says Crawly, and they move to follow, hidden again in one of Crawly’s superb _notice-me-not_ miracles. He’s quite good at them. Aziraphale’s always feel _itchy._ Probably because angels of the Lord are meant to announce their presence boldly, whereas delightful snake demons have very good reasons to sneak and lurk. 

Crawly stops, and Aziraphale mostly avoids running into his back. When he glances up, he sees why.

Tanithe is giggling, blushing, and Maryam smiles gently as Tanithe’s fingers trace the curve of her cheek. Tanithe says something, her voice low, and Maryam nods as she leans in to press a chaste kiss to Tanithe’s mouth.

“Well,” says Crawly, in a tone of voice that means he’s brewing up an idea somewhere.

“Curious,” Aziraphale echoes.

———

Their mid-day meal is a bit tense. Crowley knows Aziraphale’s stressing over the entire situation, so he’s trying to help, but most of his suggestions have been received with a gentle noise and nothing else.

“Look, angel, let’s be practical,” he continues. “If they’re into each _other_ then they both probably meet that pesky human definition of virgin, right?” He waggles his eyebrows. “ _Options.”_

“Crawly,” Aziraphale says finally, and it sounds so miserable, Crowley can’t bring himself to correct the name yet. 

“C’mon, Aziraphale. Angel. I’m trying to help. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Aziraphale sighs, and looks down at his hands, resting open in his lap. Crowley leans forward and picks up a bit of the lentil thing on some of Samat’s bread, and holds it out until Aziraphale begrudgingly takes a bite. 

“Stop worrying,” Crowley tells him. “We’ll figure all of this out. Together.”

“Crawly,” Aziraphale says again, and looks up at him. “I need to… Look, we should … That is, I want to…”

Oh. Aziraphale wants to _talk_ about their _relationship._

Crowley braces himself. It isn’t like he isn’t aware how he feels about this brilliant, glorious, awesome bastard of an angel; he hasn’t been able to fool himself about _that_ in at least three millenia. That doesn’t mean he’s good at _saying_ it. Speaking of fools. He’s one every single time he tries to open his mouth. He hasn’t even told Aziraphale that he - well - he can’t even say the _words_ yet, even if they bubbled up out of his heart the very first time he looked into those eyes.

In other words, fuck.

But Crowley can resist Aziraphale like he can resist the way the earth turns, and so he says gently, “Spit it out, angel.”

“What if I — what if I did?” Aziraphale manages to stammer out. “Have a, well.” His voice quiets, goes weirdly soft. “A baby.”

Crowley resists the urge to rub his palms down his face in irritation. “ _Angel._ I do not actually think that the Lo— Go-- “ He stumbles over the names. “That _She_ is going to reach down and plop a baby into your — whatever.” 

“She could,” Aziraphale says, and it’s still soft and a little sad. “She can do anything.”

“Weelllll,” Crowley drawls out. “You said - you believe - that She sees everything, yeah? Meaning She’s seen everything we’ve gotten up to, yeah?” This is a tricky topic between them, and Aziraphale usually doesn’t want to talk about it, but Crowley thinks he needs to hear it this time. “So if She’s really looking for a virgin corporation to shove this kid into, _She isn’t going to pick yours._ ”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, although his heart really isn’t. “No,” he says, “but what if She — picked my corporation anyway? The entire imbecilic, patriarchal, ridiculous concept of virginity aside.” He turns to face Crowley and, _oh,_ this is what his angel really wants to talk about. “What if I - bear - the Son of God anyway?”

For all that Aziraphale’s so worried the answer to this is very simple. It shouldn’t be this simple for the demon Crowley, Crawly of the Garden, the Serpent of Eden, but to his everlasting shame, it really is.

“Then we have a kid, angel.” He shrugs. “Same’s if we had our own—” He hastily gestures between them, because suddenly finishing that sentence makes his throat thick. “We manage it. It’s ours.” The thickness grows and he suddenly has to look away. “That is. Um. If you’ll have me.”

This is why Crowley fucking hates this shit. He always ends up tripping over his stupid snake-tongue and opening up this chasm of vulnerability. But when he glances back up at Aziraphale, the look on his angel’s face drowns all of that, glowing with affection. 

“Crawly,” Aziraphale says, tender. “I don’t think I could do without you, anymore.”

———

The afternoon’s spent doing a bit more research, as it is. Crawly takes advantage of his own demonic mission here in Nazareth and dons his female persona Aala to go hover inside Marit Anna’s house. (Crawly showed up in Nazareth about a year after Aziraphale arrived, his orders being something about establishing some human contacts in the small town and keeping an eye out for potential Heavenly activity. Something about a _leak,_ perhaps. As it had suited Crawly’s own desires so perfectly, he hadn’t argued, and they’d made themselves a nice home where they could happily keep a very close eye on each other whenever they liked.)

Aziraphale takes himself into the temple.

Nazareth is a small town and their temple may seem plain when compared to the great places of worship around the world - Aziraphale fondly thinks of Caracol and Machu Piccu - but he finds it extravagant. Mainly because within the context of this plain, simple town, the temple is _gloriously_ cared for and revered, and Nazareth’s people are devout. It’s very obviously loved by the town. Maryam, for example, was dedicated here as a small child; worship is a central part of life in Nazareth, and Aziraphale can appreciate the quiet division in that without grand carvings and jewels to represent it. 

The current head of the temple is a man called Tadeo, although whether this is his name or a title Aziraphale isn’t quite sure. He is assisted by Mother Bethamy, who oversees the young ladies dedicated to the temple, as well as its childrens’ services. They both know Aziraphale as a traveling devout who has elected to stay here in Nazareth for reasons he deliberately keeps cloudy in their human minds — but he laces those reasons with a true appreciation for the straightforward faith they put into their worship, and they have no reason to question his presence.

He’s here to ask some questions that might seem awkward, but he wants to couch them in the sort of discussion that will begin to prepare the priest and priestess for the - miracle - that is to come to Nazareth, either way. “I have had a vision, Father, Mother,” Aziraphale says, and they both turn to him, eagerly. He _has_ established himself as a bit of a - not prophet, that’s a bit arrogant; a visionary, maybe - and as such he shouldn’t be surprised when they put him on just a bit of a pedestal. 

“Master Ascot,” says Father Tadeo. “Please, share with us.”

“Mother, your acolytes.” Aziraphale clasps his hands on his stomach and nods at her, drawing just a bit on his halo to project a safe, devout aura in her direction. “They continue to thrive?”

“Oh, of course they are,” says Mother Bethamy. “They renew their vows on every holiday, and some of them recite them at prayers to continually renew their devotion. Master Ascot, have you seen a need for one of our devotees?”

“I do not know,” Aziraphale demurs. “I believe the Lord is sending me a vision, but I have not yet seen what She wants to tell me in all Her splendor.” It isn’t _quite_ a lie, if one replaces ‘vision’ with ‘Gabriel’ and ‘splendor’ with ‘making some damn sense once in a while’. “You both know I’ve taken up residence here at Her direction. I now feel as if the reason for that direction is approaching me. And I believe She is looking for someone in the house of acolytes to be part of a most amazing miracle.”

Mother Bethamy turns to the Father Tadeo; they’re both beaming with a sudden, awe-struck joy. “A miracle, here?” Father Tadeo breathes. “Oh, Master Ascot, here in Nazareth?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, gently pressing a bit more with his halo. He isn’t quite sure how to phrase this part. “Your acolytes, Mother Bethamy, they remain pure of heart, of soul, and, er, well, of body?”

“Oh, yes,” she replies, eager to please. “There are no discretions here. The girls truly believe they do the work of the Lord Himself.”

“Er, good.” It’s rather embarrassing, really. He can’t just come out and _ask_ which ones are virgins. He knows enough about human culture to realize how rude that would be. “The Lord is looking for the purest and most holy vessel. Or, uh. So I am told.”

It’s his worst speech ever, but somehow the Father and Mother still look glory-struck. Must be the halo.

——— 

Crowley has consumed quite a bit of wine by the time Aziraphale returns home. 

“Oh, dear,” says the angel, upon seeing him. “Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong, angel, just…” Crowey cannot unsee what he saw in the healer’s home. “Just a bit, uh, ngh. Human stuff. Corporation stuff.”

Aziraphale brightens. “So you’ve learned something, then? Oh, do tell.” He sits down across from Crowley, crossing his legs under his robe and reaching for the wine. “My investigation was far less productive, although I wouldn’t call it _unsuccessful._ Just a bit, well. Unclear.”

“So,” Crowley blurts out, because he really has had a lot to drink. “It definitely, uh, grows inside, angel.” He gestures at his own belly under his robes. “Isn’t just something you wrap up and keep close. It’s, uh, in the. Corporation.”

“Inside?” Aziraphale frowns, wrinkling his nose. “How terribly intrusive. How does it, er, come out, then?”

“I was afraid it just,” Crowley says, and makes a gesture with his hands like an explosion initiating from the navel he keeps for fun and spreading outward. “But no. I guess it comes out, like. The, uh. Holes.”

“Well, that’s awkward.” Aziraphale prods at his own round belly. “No wonder they scream so much.”

Crowley stays silent. He doesn’t want to think about any of it. He and Aziraphale have never actually watched birth; it seems too intimate for the humans, their presences too intrusive. 

“So, Crawly, then....” Aziraphale downs his cup of wine with the fortitude of a soldier. “How will I know if this corporation is, um. Expecting?”

“Not sure,” says Crowley. He really needs to tell the angel his new name; he has been trying it out in his head, making sure it fits, but it seems to have settled. “Everyone in the hut just seems to, uh, know this kind of stuff. I feel like Aala asking would be a bit obvious, y’know?”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, squaring his shoulders. “The humans seem to think that having intercourse is necessary, but that can’t be entirely accurate. Humans have plenty of, er, without procreating at all. I wonder what initiates the, the, the beginning?”

Crowley refills both of their glasses. “Seems to me people must just have these seeds inside, and at some point, one of them…” He tries very hard not to say _germinate._ Plants, he understands; his human corporation, not so much. When Crowley thinks about it - which he tries not to - it has a spine that’s a bit too flexible and a few extra ribs like a snake and the rest is just one giant mass of an organ that takes care of the rest. Oh, and the fun human parts, when he and Aziraphale want to make an effort. Rather than finishing his sentence he makes a gesture that’s supposed to represent some kind of miracle and ends up reminding him of the mudras he used to create stars.

“Maybe when the right two people come together,” Aziraphale starts, and then looks at Crowley with a bit of panic on his face. “I mean, er,” he stammers, and Crowley can’t help his grin.

“We don’t count, angel,” he says gently. “These corporations aren’t really human. We’re still the right two people.”

Aziraphale sniffs and rolls his eyes, but Crowley can see his gratitude in it. “Anyway.” He glances down his torso. “I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do,” he admits. “I don’t know how _I_ would be able to tell, honestly. I feel like I would … should … behave differently.” He clears his throat, an awkward little noise. “If this corporation is going to hold the Son of God.”

“I wonder if it’ll burn me,” Crowley says, idly considering. “Like, if it’s in you, and we’re fucking. Wonder if I’ll be able to tell.”

“Crawly!” Aziraphale gasps, appalled. “That isn’t funny!”

“Never said it was funny,” Crowley tells him. He’s mostly just teasing, and also wants to get his hands under Aziraphale’s robes. The wine has settled into his limbs, languid, and Aziraphale’s hair is lit by their lamps into a golden cloud. He’s so beautiful it’s stupid. “Just saying. We should take advantage now, just in case.”

Aziraphale gets it after a moment, his smile brightening as he sets down his cup. “Crawly, my dear,” he says in that warm welcoming way Crowley just wants to sink into forever. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?” Crowley asks, already touching Aziraphale’s face. “Tell me it’s working.”

———

Once again, Aziraphale scurries after the Archangel Gabriel, this time more than a little anxious about the entire situation. They’re walking along the banks of the small river that flows past Nazareth, thankfully out of sight of the rest of the village. Aziraphale’s hoping this means that if he loses his mind at the thought of having to carry the Son of God inside this corporation, no one will actually see it. 

“We have considered your suggestion,” Gabriel starts. “In fact, we have considered it a lot!”

Aziraphale purses his lips so that he doesn’t sigh out loud. “And?” He asks, trying not to sound impatient. He doesn’t want to drive Gabriel to something rash by being a nag, anyway. 

“And we presented both ideas to God!” Gabriel exclaims. He seems excited by all of this. “Or, well, the Metatron, really, but his eyes are Her eyes, you know.”

Aziraphale swallows a retort that’s really much more Crawly’s style than his own. “And how does She wish Her Son to be born?”

Gabriel laughs. “We don’t know yet! She’s going to think about it, and She’ll let us know.” He’s still chuckling over it. “She can certainly be mysterious, can’t She?”

“That’s how She’s meant to be, isn’t it?” Aziraphale grumbles, ungratefully. He’d been _hoping_ he would leave with some kind of idea what to expect; he isn’t looking forward to weeks - months? Gabriel’s sense of time is, in fact, rather awkward anyway - where he isn’t sure whether he needs to treat this corporation like a holy temple, or like ...something that wants to _engage_ with a demon, multiple times, daily. “So what should I do?”

“Wait!” Gabriel exclaims. “Watch!” He claps his hand to Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale braces himself just in time to avoid stumbling. “Prepare the town for Her coming!”

Aziraphale frowns. Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice. “If there has been no decision, then, erm.” He swallows. “What brings you here today, Gabriel?”

“Oh,” Gabriel says to him, cheerfully. “I thought you would want to know that the Lord Herself was considering your suggestion! Aziraphale, that’s a real feather in your wing!”

“Rather,” says Aziraphale, and takes a brief moment to hate everything around him before he quenches that feeling and turns an idle face to Gabriel once again.

———

Crowley can’t get Aziraphale to stop fretting and it’s making him feel awful, awkward, absolutely abysmal. 

“How will I — _know,_ Crawly, how will I know?” He’s pacing the short length of their home, hands in his hair, those alabaster-cloud curls tugged to new and amusing heights. “How am I just supposed to — I can’t tell Gabriel, not now, but oh, I’m going to have to, aren’t I?”

“Angel,” he says, fully aware it isn’t sufficient. “Come. Sit down. Please.”

“Oh, Crawly, I’m terrified.” Aziraphale collapses next to him on the bed. Crowley’s well aware he’s done this three times already this night, only to leap back up with renewed energy and go back to pacing. “Is this what humans call a breakdown? Ugh. It’s quite awful, dearest. What do we do?”

Crowley feels useless. Worse than useless: he feels like he’s the thing that’s going to ruin Aziraphale, blacken those wings, make him have to suffer. They’ve been over this so many times, over the last four millennia — and no matter how many times Aziraphale tells him, over and over, that he’s sure and they’re safe, Crowley still… well. There will always be a part of him that asks the hard questions. Aziraphale is, sometimes, one of the hard questions.

“Crawly?” Aziraphale asks him again, hands tugging at him, wanting comfort and attention. 

Crowley doesn’t even realize Aziraphale’s panic has been spiraling upwards through him as well until he hears himself snapping, “ _Crowley,_ angel, I’ve changed it. It’s _Crowley.”_

Horrified, he slaps a hand over his own mouth and stares at Aziraphale, wide-eyed.

“I didn’t,” Aziraphale starts, “I mean, _you_ didn’t, I mean…” He trails off, and then yes, there are the tears, big fat bold ones, running down those cheeks. Crowley feels _wretched._

“No, angel, I didn’t - shouldn’t have said like that - I’m, fuck,” he stammers, reaching out with his unworthy palms, trying to scrub the tears from Aziraphale’s face. “Sshh, shh, that was poorly done, me, it’s going to be alright, angel-”

“It _isn’t alright!”_ Aziraphale shrieks, flying to his feet again. “I’m _pregnant,_ we’re having the _Son of God,_ and I’ve - I’ve —” He sniffles, deeply, and then moves on with the stubbornness that makes him Earth’s best principality. _“I’ve been deadnaming you this entire time!”_

Crowley blesses - curses - thanks _someone_ for the soundproofing wards on their home after that.

———

“I’m so sorry, Cra — Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, far later that evening, when all is calm and all is quiet.

Nighttime in Nazareth is near silent. Its inhabitants rise with the sun and sleep when darkness falls. Crowley, who has always been keen on sleep, follows their schedule; Aziraphale has never been good at sleeping himself.

He’s gotten all worked up over — this? A thing that should be a blessing. A thing that _could_ be a blessing, Aziraphale thinks, finally allowing himself to have the thought in the safety to be found past midnight: _imagine._ He and Crowley, angel and demon, together raising the Son of God. Teaching him about good and evil together; showing him, _demonstrating_ that Heaven and Hell are more similar than anyone realizes, explaining to him that it’s the free will of humans that allows them to _choose_ good or evil, and that the _choices_ matter more than anything. Showing the Son what joys there are to be found in humanity: the food, the drink, the way they need nothing more than a roaring fire and a few musicians to celebrate, dancing barefoot and shameless into the night. The way humans are capable of terrible things, sure, but the ways that they love: human, imperfect, physical and messy, ascendant and divine. The way that he himself is sure that God’s message to them is really _about_ love, in the end; the way Crowley would never say it, but would agree, in his way.

Maybe that’s what this is about, Aziraphale thinks. Maybe God in Her wisdom has chosen him _because_ of this. 

And maybe not. It won’t do for Aziraphale to lie here having delusions of grandeur while Crawly - _Crowley_ \- sleeps and She writes her Ineffable Plan. 

Aziraphale leans over and sweeps Crowley’s long hair off of his face. His own, his demon: beloved. It makes him feel holy; he feels _blessed._

———

“So I had Aala ask Marit Anna how she would know if she was pregnant,” Crowley announces, throwing himself down next to Aziraphale and sticking his feet into the river. “And the answer is that the ...bleeding stops?”

“Bleeding?” Aziraphale frowns. He’s holding his fishing rod, but Crowley knows his angel’s far too squeamish to actually _hook_ a fish. Both of them just like the excuse to sit together in the sun and drink; it looks like Aziraphale’s already halfway through the jug of beer. Crowley takes a long draught; he’s _thirsty._

“I have no idea,” he admits, “but all the other women nodded, so I figured Aala should probably know what they meant? It felt too awkward to ask further.” 

“Bleeding,” Aziraphale muses. “I have no idea. None of my - parts - have ever been bleeding. Doesn’t that mean something’s _wrong?_ ”

“We don’t bleed, angel,” Crowley corrects him. The line twitches, and Aziraphale hastily snaps his fingers to free whatever he might have accidentally caught. “So, I have no idea.”

“Look at me,” Aziraphale demands suddenly. 

Crowley does. Aziraphale’s flushed from the sun and the beer, his pale curls tousled by the wind. His robe is dusty, the hem is torn, and he’s been experimenting with a scab on his knee for verisimilitude. His eyes are so blue out here under the sky. He’s still the most beautiful goddamn thing Crowley’s ever seen in his life.

“You’re lovely,” he manages to choke out.

“Oh, _thank_ you,” says Aziraphale, his smile going soft, all the tension in his shoulders leaving immediately. Then something must occur to him, because his face falls immediately into an irritated frown and he says, “No, Crowley, _look at me.”_ He waves a hand at his torso. “You know. _Magically.”_

“You’re still lovely,” Crowley grumbles, but he closes his human eyes and opens his occult ones. 

Aziraphale is a bright spot in the darkness of Crowley’s vision — he always has been. He gleams with his holiness in a way that makes Crowley want to slither over and coil up for a bask. He lets his eyes adjust to the light and then peers inside, through the surface holiness that marks his corporation (it’s pseudo-human, sure, but it was still created by Heaven). Inside, what constitutes Aziraphale’s soul is shimmering around like sparkling metallic ink over water - on this plane, anyway - so Crowley watches it long enough to make sure it is, in fact, one soul rather than two.

He takes a selfish minute to watch Aziraphale glow, because his angel is the most perfect thing in creation. 

Opening his eyes to the brightness of the earthly day - sharpening his vision back down to three dimensions - it stings, and Crowley wipes angrily at his eyes for watering. Snake eyes shouldn’t water; that’s just stupid. 

“Nothing, angel,” he says, once he’s readjusted. “Just the one soul.”

“Thank — well, someone,” Aziraphale mutters.

———

Aziraphale, for what it’s worth, does try to tell the town that miracles are on their way.

He tells Father Tadeo and Mother Bethamy that the Lord has asked them to watch, and wait, and prepare. The Father begins peppering it into his sermons, that a great miracle of the Lord approaches; the Mother lectures her girls on the virtues of chastity and purity. Normally Aziraphale feels awkward about that - it’s a part of their human nature to do these things, and they can be done in love - but Gabriel had been pretty clear about the whole thing, so it must do.

He and Crowley continue on their way. Aala, who has asked one too many questions about pregnancy, is now being very delicately shamed: the women of the healer’s house suspect she’s gotten herself into a ‘delicate condition’, whatever that is. Crowley is debating telling them that she is, in fact, pregnant with a child - for informational purposes, of course - but since they have no idea how it works, they have no idea how to fake it, either. Plus, it would take a hell of a miracle to wipe that from everyone’s memories, assuming they’re to stay here in Nazareth. 

In the end, they barely get any warning at all, and Crowley’s reduced to hiding in their home while Gabriel himself appears to Maryam, announces that she has been chosen to bear the Son of God, and then orders Aziraphale to find her someone to marry.

“She’ll need a helper, a partner!” Gabriel still has his _glow_ on and Aziraphale has never seen him look so smug. “Single motherhood, not a good look, know what I mean?”

Aziraphale bristles at that, but there’s no point in reasoning with Gabriel when he’s like this. Aziraphale’s still trying to get him to understand they/them pronouns, for Heaven’s sake. 

He can’t say _nothing,_ though. “Are you sure? Maryam’s mother is the healer of this village. She’ll be very well cared for. And if the whole town knows she’s bearing the Son of God… Look, there’s really no reason to drag someone else into this, is there?” The point he’s trying to make is that he is fairly sure _Maryam is a lesbian, Gabriel,_ but for whatever reason he can’t just say it outright.

“No, no, we want a husband in on this action too.” Gabriel finally puts his wings away, and Aziraphale tries not to obviously sigh in relief; he mostly fails. His halo’s still out, though, as obnoxious as ever. Gabriel tries to capture some bit of his true form in his halo, but the rotating concentric rings and wings moving through four dimensions just looks like a drunken mobile spinning over his head here on the Earth. It’s not quite right. There’s a reason Gabriel always starts off by booming “Do not be afraid!”, and it isn’t a good one.

Faced with this disaster of an archangel, Aziraphale can only bow his head and say, “As you wish, Gabriel.” Hopefully Crowley will be able to think of something.

———

“Already thought of that,” Crowley says, proudly and a bit smug, after a delicious private dinner. Aziraphale’s been ranting about Gabriel the entire time, and Crowley loves to see his prim and proper angel get downright nasty. They’re both a bit in their cups, to be fair, but Aziraphale can be such a _bastard._ One of the many reasons Crowley loves him. 

“I had hoped you might have an idea.” Aziraphale beams at him. “You’re so clever, Crowley.”

“Well, I, uh,” he stammers. Still not at all used to Aziraphale’s compliments, even after this long. “Look, if Maryam really does prefer the ladies, then we find a — a husband that prefers the husbands, yeah? I mean. Prefers the men.”

“Crowley, that sounds awful,” Aziraphale admits. “The two of them, bound together with a child - that isn’t even his - trapped in heterosexuality? That poor Christ child.”

“Nononono, no, angel, see.” Crowley makes a gesture with his hands, trying to draw out the shape of it. “‘S a marriage of, y’know, convenience. An agreement. An Arrangement,” he adds, cackling, and Aziraphale swats at him.

“Ours is not a marriage of! — well,” Aziraphale trails off. “Anything, really.”

They aren’t technically married. Crowley finds that’s suddenly too much to think of in this drunken moment. He’s been real careful so far not to follow that particular train of thought too far from the station. 

“ _Anyway,_ ” he says loudly. “Maryam an’ ...somebody. Both of them being of the, hnn, ehhh, the homosexual persuasion. Get them married. Can have a household, raise the kid, avoid the judgment of people who don’t think it’s proper, right?” 

Aziraphale makes a noise in the back of his throat, to express what he thinks of those kinds of people. Crowley grins at it. “Anyway. Lets them settle down with somebody else who _gets it,_ angel. Look around. They won’t let Maryam marry a girl, especially not now. And — ehhh.” His voice crumples up. “I know a couple of the guys over by the river, the ones who work with wood. They’re always one step away from persecution. Don’t think they’d mind an arrangement where they could still, y’know, be themselves, but not have to worry about what other people think.”

He glances over at Aziraphale, who looks surprisingly pensive. 

“It seems awful,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Having to do that. Having to hide your love.”

Aaaaand that’s also far too close to paths Crowley really likes to keep his mind from traveling. Nope. Not ready to have _that_ conversation with Aziraphale either. Crowley hastily drinks his wine and refills the cup.

“Look, angel, they live in a society,” he says. “Humans do this. You know ‘s’well as I do gay marriage won’t be a thing for another millenia or two. Isn’t it better for Maryam to have a husband who understands and is the same, rather than some man who’ll expect her to fully love him back?”

Aziraphale looks surprisingly — sad. Fucking _hell._ Crowley had figured Aziraphale would _get it,_ since it’s basically what they’re doing: presenting the socially (if one can consider Heaven and Hell anything of a society) acceptable thing up front and doing what makes them happy in private? And it isn’t (well, okay, it’s _hard,_ cause there are days Crowley wants to wrap himself around Aziraphale right underneath God’s own sun and scream at Her for the way She’s treated them all, but like, the day-to-day existence isn’t hard at all; that’s quite enjoyable) that difficult. All things considered, and all. 

“I suppose you have a point,” Aziraphale says, finally. He sounds pensive, a bit regretful, and Crowley doesn’t like any of those moods on his angel at all. He wraps an arm around Aziraphale and tugs him in to plant a sloppy kiss into his curls.

“Worry about it tomorrow,” Crowley suggests. “Get drunk tonight.”

“Foul fiend,” Aziraphale says fondly, as he reaches for the jug.

———

Aziraphale doesn’t like the idea of saddling poor Maryam with a husband at _all._ Poor girl, she’s so young, and to bear the actual Son of God is enough of a burden! To be paired with a husband now, that she’d barely know - she’s been dedicated to the church for most of her years - seems a bit much to put on one young woman. Plus the heterosexual agenda on this entire thing is _appalling._ Nevertheless, She - and Gabriel - must be appeased, and as such, Aziraphale goes out with Crowley to examine their options. 

It turns out there’s a young man, Yosef, with skill in carpentry and a gentle demeanor, who has in fact been praying to find a wife that won’t mind his equally gentle love for a man in Japha whom he only sees maybe once a month due to their occupations and the threat of condemnation. Aziraphale, obviously, doesn’t hear every prayer uttered on earth - there are far too many - but as a Principality, he can localize his attention if he’s looking to bestow miracles in a particular area. A few days of listening to the nearby temples has been - well, a lot - but this one makes him curious. 

It’s the fact that Yosef is in fact _praying_ for it that convinces Aziraphale to go and meet him. He doesn’t want a husband for Maryam who prays to be ‘released’ from his homosexual urges, or whatever they’re telling them secularly these days; he’s heard far too many of those prayers over his time on earth, and they’re so depressingly exhausting. But here’s Yosef, willing to open his heart to love a second person, as long as they can understand his first love. _That,_ to Aziraphale, is God’s will at work.

He arranges for them to meet. He and Crowley (as Aala) act as the mediators, and he appreciates Crowley’s vague miracle that has both their parents thinking this is a wonderful opportunity for a match. To his surprise, Maryam and Yosef actually suit each other; they immediately start the kind of argument you can only have with someone who understands your point of view, and Aziraphale can’t help the fond look he gives Aala as they do. There is one incredibly awkward conversation that Crowley walks them through, about their preferences, but they appear to be on the same page about it. Both of them seem willing to cherish one another, even if love does not develop, and they both seem to understand that both their physical passions lie elsewhere. 

Aziraphale gently delivers the message about the Son of God. It obviously throws Yosef for a bit of a loop, but before he can even intervene, Maryam takes him by the hand and explains it from her own point of view. Once Yosef can reconcile his own mindset to include the actual physical proof of the Lord, he declares himself doubly blessed, and vows to tithe a full quarter of his wages to the small temple in Nazareth until Maryam’s child is born.

Aziraphale’s eyes fill with happy tears. Here, at least, are two humans that God has set Her hand upon. He truly feels like he’s worked one of his most important miracles today, and yet it didn’t take a single _actual_ miracle. Humanity will never stop surprising him, with their open minds and full hearts and ability to change and adjust. 

“Free will, angel,” Crowley says, once they’ve delivered both home to their parents with the good news. “Satan, but I love seeing it at work.”

“That’s the Lord’s work, my dear,” Aziraphale tells him, still a little sniffly. Oh, he loves Crowley _so much._ “That’s Her real work.”

Crowley kicks a shoulder up in a shrug, but doesn’t make the face Aziraphale expects. “I suppose there’s times the two agree,” he says instead, and Aziraphale feels absolutely wiped out with affection.

———

Crowley stumbles into their home and immediately collapses onto their bed. His brain is forever damaged. He will never think again. Ever. He’s turning the whole thing off. It just isn’t worth it, now, knowing what he knows.

Aziraphale must feel his distress, because it’s not even a half-hour until he rushes inside. “Crowley, dearest, are you alright?”

“No,’ Crowley groans. “I am not. I will never be alright again.”

“Darling.” Aziraphale sits down beside him, rests a palm on his forehead. “I’m about to panic; do tell me what’s wrong.”

“Marit Anna caught Aala asking questions,” Crowley says. “Asking Maryam questions. And she.” He can barely say it. “She sat Aala down and, well. Told her everything.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale sounds excited. He always does, with new knowledge. He doesn’t quite understand that this knowledge is cursed. Terribly. “Well, share what you’ve found, my dear boy. I’m dying to know.”

“I shouldn’t,” Crowley says, but he kind of wants to, if only so Aziraphale can share this hell with him. “Are you sure you want to know this, angel?”

Aziraphale _tsks_ at the back of his tongue. “You’re the one who said that all knowledge is worth having, Crowley.”

So Crowley. Sits up. And tells him about intercourse, pregnancy, and childbirth.

Four hours later they’re at least eighteen sheets to the wind - Crowley’s lost count - and sitting outside their abode, leaning up against a wall, staring at the sky.

“For the first time I regret being the snake,” Crowley says. It isn’t actually true, but liquor has made his tongue a bit silly, all things considered.

“For the first time,” Aziraphale replies, “I don’t want to do any more research.”

They pass the jug back and forth again, drinking in the honor of anyone who has ever had to go through that entire - ngk - process.

“I’m so glad it wasn’t me,” Aziraphale confesses, all in a rush. “Maybe it’s unfair to Maryam, but I’m so glad it wasn’t me.”

“Cor, me too, angel.” Crowley shifts close enough for Aziraphale to wrap an arm around him. Both of their corporations can be immune to pain and other human sensations if they wish, but he wouldn’t have liked watching Aziraphale go through any of that. “Look, we’ll be there when Maryam gives birth, help her out a bit. That’s fair enough, yeah?”

Aziraphale pulls him closer and rests his chin on Crowley’s head. This is, admittedly, one of Crowley’s favorite places to be: tucked up against Aziraphale’s bulk and warmth, their arms and fingers all entangled around him, and nothing but the feeling of security and belonging in his head.

“I’ve been thinking, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and even though he’s entirely wrapped up in Aziraphale like his angel is a blanket, Crowley can’t help the way he freezes, suddenly startled and scared and full of the animalistic instinct to run. “Oh, stop it,” Aziraphale tells him, pulling Crowley closer. He tries to relax.

“I just,” Aziraphale starts, and then sighs. “I don’t want us to be like Yosef and Maryam,” he says, and then hastily adds, “I mean the bad version of it. Or the opportunity for the bad version, since they seem quite... Oh, I’m saying this all wrong, you know. I know this all has to be - hidden - but I never want you to doubt how I feel about you.”

Crowley can’t answer because his heart has launched itself into the back of his throat. It’s about to come out on his tongue. Neither of them have said the human words — but it isn’t about the human words, is it?

“This is right,” Aziraphale murmurs into his ear, tightening his arms around Crowley. “Even if I doubt it sometimes. Even if we quarrel, or we disagree. This is…”

“I know, angel,” Crowley murmurs, and shifts so that his hand finds one of Aziraphale’s, immediately entwining their fingers. 

“Also,” Aziraphale says in that prim way he has, as if delivering some kind of delicate statement with enough judgment to act as a spice, “Thank Her directly that I’m not actually pregnant.”

Crowley laughs so hard his stomach hurts, but it’s okay, because Aziraphale tumbles him over to the ground, and this, too, is a blessing he never expected to have.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~someone tell me not to write the sequel, in which Jesus is actually born~~
> 
> HIT ME UP: [tumblr](https://sevdrag.tumblr.com/) | [discord, CYOA, and other fun places](https://seventhe.dreamwidth.org/435490.html) | [art etc](https://https//www.instagram.com/sevdrag/)


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